Amina wakes up late, the sunlight streaming through her open window. She groans, rubbing her eyes as the events of the previous night come flooding back—the dream, Emeka's visit, the eerie whispers. But there's no time to dwell on it. Her mother's voice cuts through the quiet like a knife.
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"Amina! Are you still sleeping? Get up!"
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Amina stumbles out of bed, her head still foggy. She opens her door to find her mother, **Mama Nkechi**, standing with her hands on her hips, her expression a mix of exasperation and disappointment.
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"Look at this room!" Mama Nkechi exclaims, gesturing to the open window and the empty ice cream bowl on the desk. "You slept with the window open? Do you want thieves—or worse, spirits—to crawl in? And this bowl! Look at it!"
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Amina follows her mother's gaze to the bowl, now swarming with ants. She winces. "I'm sorry, Mama. I forgot—"
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"Forgot? Eh? You're too old to be forgetting things, Amina. And look at the time! The sun is already high, and you're still in your nightclothes. Hurry up and get dressed. We're going to the market."
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Amina hurries to wash up and change, pulling on a simple but elegant **dera**—a flowing, ankle-length dress with intricate embroidery along the neckline. She ties a matching headscarf loosely around her hair, the fabric bright and cheerful against her dark skin.
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When she steps into the living room, her father, **Papa Chukwuma**, is already dressed for work. He's wearing his usual outfit—a collared shirt tucked into neatly pressed trousers, his boots polished to a shine. He's sitting at the table, a notebook open in front of him as he calculates the household expenses.
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"Good morning, Papa," Amina says, her voice soft.
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Papa Chukwuma looks up and smiles. "Good morning, my daughter. You look... decent."
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Mama Nkechi, who's now dressed in casual Nigerian wear—a colorful wrapper and a simple blouse—rolls her eyes. "Decent? Is that all you can say? Your daughter looks beautiful, and all you can say is 'decent'?"
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Papa Chukwuma chuckles, closing his notebook. "Fine, fine. She looks beautiful. But beauty won't pay the bills. Amina, have you thought about what we discussed? About Chief Emeka's son?"
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Amina's smile falters. "Papa, not this again—"
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Mama Nkechi cuts in sharply. "Chukwuma, must you bring this up now? Can't you see we're trying to get ready?"
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Papa Chukwuma holds up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. I just want what's best for her."
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Papa Chukwuma stands, slipping his notebook into his pocket. He hands Mama Nkechi a wad of naira notes. "This should be enough for the market and the books. Don't forget to stop by the pharmacy and pick up medicine for my mother. She's complaining of a mild malaria again."
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Mama Nkechi nods, tucking the money into her bag. "We'll take care of it. But why can't you drop us off at the market? It's on your way."
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Papa Chukwuma shakes his head. "I'm picking up my friend, **Obinna**, today. We're doing field work, and it's in the opposite direction. You'll have to take a taxi."
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Mama Nkechi sighs but doesn't argue. She turns to Amina. "Let's go. The market won't wait for us."
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As they step outside, Papa Chukwuma mounts his motorcycle, the engine roaring to life. He glances back at Amina, his expression softening. "Take care of yourself, my daughter. And don't forget—education is important, but so is family."
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Amina nods, though her heart feels heavy. "Goodbye, Papa. I love you."
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He doesn't respond, but the way he looks at her tells her everything she needs to know. With a final wave, he rides off, the sound of the motorcycle fading into the distance.
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***
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Mama Nkechi and Amina set off on foot, their bags slung over their shoulders. The morning sun is warm, the streets bustling with activity. Vendors call out to passersby, their stalls overflowing with fresh produce, colorful fabrics, and handmade goods.
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As they walk, Mama Nkechi glances at Amina. "You know your father means well, even if he doesn't always say the right things."
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Amina sighs. "I know, Mama. But I just... I want to focus on my studies. Is that so wrong?"
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Mama Nkechi smiles, patting her daughter's arm. "No, it's not wrong. But remember, life is about balance. You can have both—education and family. Just give it time."
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Amina nods, though her mind is still racing. As they approach the market, she can't shake the feeling that something is watching her, waiting. But for now, she pushes the thought aside, focusing on the day ahead.
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The market is alive with noise and color, the air thick with the scent of spices, fresh produce, and sizzling street food. Mama Nkechi leads Amina through the bustling stalls, her eyes scanning for the best deals. They stop at a yam vendor, his table piled high with tubers of various sizes.
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"How much for this one?" Mama Nkechi asks, holding up a large yam.
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The vendor, a middle-aged man with a weathered face, squints at her. "₦1,500. Very fresh, very good."
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Mama Nkechi scoffs, placing the yam back on the table. "₦1,500? Are you trying to rob me? This yam is not even that big. I'll give you ₦800."
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The vendor shakes his head, his expression indignant. "₦800? Mama, this yam is big enough to feed your whole family for a week! ₦1,200, final price."
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Mama Nkechi folds her arms, her lips pursed. "₦1,000, and I'll buy two. Take it or leave it."
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The vendor hesitates, then sighs dramatically. "Ah, Mama, you're killing me. But because it's you, I'll take it. ₦1,000 for two."
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Mama Nkechi smiles triumphantly, handing over the money. "Thank you. Next time, don't try to overcharge me."
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As Mama Nkechi inspects the yams, Amina feels a strange sensation, like someone is watching her. She turns and locks eyes with an old man standing a few feet away. His gaze is intense, almost piercing, and before she can look away, he starts walking toward her.
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Amina's heart races. She tries to step back, but the crowd is too dense. The old man reaches her in moments, his hand gripping her wrist with surprising strength.
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"Don't scream," he says, his voice low and urgent. "I'm here to help. I know what you see, and it will get worse if we don't fix it."
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Amina's breath catches in her throat. "What are you talking about?"
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The old man doesn't answer. Instead, he pulls a talisman from his pocket—a small, intricately carved ankh with the Eye of Osiris etched into the back. He presses it into her hand.
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"This will help," he says. "But it will cost you. ₦2,000."
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Amina shakes her head, clutching the talisman. "I can't. That money is for my books."
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The old man's eyes narrow. "₦1,000, then. But don't waste my time."
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Amina hesitates, but the old man's gaze is unrelenting, his eyes boring into hers until she feels a chill run down her spine. Reluctantly, she pulls out the money and hands it to him.
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The old man pockets the cash, his expression grim. "Don't lose it," he warns. "If the gods send me to you again, I'll charge extra."
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Before Amina can respond, he melts into the crowd, disappearing as quickly as he appeared.
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Amina stares at the talisman in her hand, her mind racing. Just then, she feels another pair of eyes on her. She looks up and sees her—Mami Wata. The spirit is standing a few feet away, her body draped in a flowing white robe that covers her hair like a veil. Her beauty is otherworldly, her smile both enchanting and terrifying.
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"That won't save you for long," Mami Wata says, her voice a melodic whisper. Then, just as suddenly as she appeared, she vanishes into the crowd.
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Amina is still staring at the spot where Mami Wata stood when her mother's voice snaps her back to reality.
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"Amina! Are you daydreaming again? A whole you?" Mama Nkechi shakes her head, her expression a mix of amusement and exasperation. "Abeg, let's go home. I've already bought everything while you were standing there like a statue."
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Amina forces a smile, slipping the talisman into her pocket. "Sorry, Mama. Let's go."
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Back at home, Mama Nkechi and Amina prepare lunch together—a pot of fragrant **jollof rice**, the aroma of tomatoes, peppers, and spices filling the kitchen. As they cook, Mama Nkechi shares stories from her youth, her voice warm and nostalgic.
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"You know, your father didn't marry me for my looks alone," she says, stirring the pot. "He was betrothed to another woman, but when he tasted my cooking, he canceled the wedding and married me instead."
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Amina laughs, though her mind is still on the talisman and the old man's warning. "Mama, you're exaggerating."
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Mama Nkechi shakes her head, her expression serious. "I'm not. A woman must know how to cook if she wants to keep her husband. And you, my daughter, need to learn. One day, you'll have a family of your own."
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Amina nods, though the thought makes her uneasy. She focuses on the task at hand, chopping vegetables and stirring the pot as her mother instructs.
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After lunch, Mama Nkechi packs a dish of jollof rice, a thermos of tea, a bottle of water, and a few malaria pills into a basket. "Take this to your grandmother," she says, handing the basket to Amina. "And don't dawdle. She's expecting you."
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Amina nods, slinging the basket over her arm. As she steps outside, she glances at the talisman in her pocket, her heart pounding. She knows the old man's warning was real, but she can't shake the feeling that something is still watching her.
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